


Soft and Sweet as Marzipan

by KamikazeSoundSociety



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Religious Guilt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/pseuds/KamikazeSoundSociety
Summary: Credence thinks about Mr Graves constantly. He doesn't even mean to - he sees the careless wave of Mr Graves' hands in between raindrops, sees the polish of his boots reflected in the puddles on the street, sees his smile inside soap suds in the sink. When he closes his eyes he imagines Mr Graves’ hands on the wall to either side of him, caging him in, his face ducked low so he can murmur low into Credence’s ear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [In this post, ](https://seasons-gredence.tumblr.com/post/159513743583/credence-motherfuckin-barebone)[seasons-gredence](https://seasons-gredence.tumblr.com/%20) said she'd give an NSFW headcanon for a FB character. Her NSFW headcanon for Credence involved lots of dry humping. This gave me Ideas.

Thinking of Mr Graves isn’t anything new for Credence. In the rare quiet moments of his life tucked between church sermons and feeding hungry mouths, it’s all he does. When his hands are in the sink after dinner, sleeves rolled up, he sees Mr Graves’ white smile inside the soap suds. When he’s standing on a street corner, handing out pamphlets in the rain, he sees the careless wave of Mr Graves’ hand in between the raindrops, the gleam of his shoes in the reflections of the puddles.

When he lies in bed at night, he sees Mr Graves’ dark eyes staring down at him through the night. The glint of the pane could be the shine of his eyes. The moonlight streaming through the window might be the silver at his temples, or the soft magic of his hands against Credence’s, soothing, healing. The wind howling outside might be the rumble of his voice against Credence’s temple. The blanket curled around Credence’s body might be his arms, holding him close.

_You’re important, Credence_ , he’d crooned. _Miracle. Magical._ _Special_. He holds those words close to him, mouthing them, letting them fill him up, golden and sparkling. He treasures the memory, savouring it, taking it apart like a rare sweet.

It curls in his chest, settling low, sinking through him. When he closes his eyes, he can imagine Mr Graves’ hands on the wall to either side of him, caging him in, his face ducked low so he can murmur into Credence’s ear. Credence is unafraid. In his memory, Credence can smell his cologne – smoky, spiced, better than anything he’d ever smelt before. In his imagination, he raises his chin and Mr Graves speaks to him with his mouth against Credecence's bony shoulder.

_I’ll take you away. I’ll take you away with me and I’ll show you magic. You’re so important, Credence, such a miracle._

Credence inhales a shuddering breath. There is an unbearable pressure between his legs, and he rubs his thighs together, seeking friction; it does not come. Slowly, with all the speed of a glacier advancing, he sneaks his hand down his front to press against himself, the sinful flesh between his legs hard and aching. He doesn’t take a hold of himself – that’s a sin, he’d surely go blind – but he presses the heel of his hand against his hardness, trying to relieve this awful pressure.

He imagines it’s Mr Graves who’s pressed up against him, the smell of his cologne filling him up, the sound of his voice dripping like a drug through the spiralling canals of his ears until Credence offers himself up, body soft and sweet as marzipan.

He brings his hand to his mouth, biting down into the skin between thumb and index finger to muffle the obscene noise he can’t help. His hips buck up against his hand and the fingers of his other hand spasm down, holding onto his hard length through the fabric for the barest moment and _oh that feels so good._ But then the realisation of what he’s doing sparks through him and he releases himself instantly, panting from behind his hand.

He can’t. He can’t. He mustn’t.

He turns over in bed, lying on his front to try to prevent from touching himself. He closes his eyes again and resolves to go back to sleep.

Unbidden, thoughts of Mr Graves leap to the forefront of his mind. Credence thinks of the gleam of his teeth, the sound of his laughter as it had echoed, bouncing off the bricks in the alleyway. He thinks of Mr Graves gripping his elbow, guiding him over a puddle. His hand had been so large, his fingers so long, they’d encircled his thin elbow easily.

Credence’s hips jerk of their own volition, and his cock rubs up against the mattress, beautiful friction. Credence gasps loudly and then freezes, certain Ma has heard him. Ma or Chastity, who will burst into his room screaming and howling about the sin of self-abuse.

But nothing happens. The church remains silent. Outside, the wind howls by the window.

Hesitantly, he rocks back, curling his toes against the bed for better leverage. Lovely, perfect friction against his aching cock, and he almost moans again, muffling it into his pillow at the last moment. He rocks forward, again, thinking of Mr Graves and the way his mouth tilts just _so_ in the bare instant before he smiles.

The hot feeling is back, now, sparking down his spine and settling low between the cradle of his hips. Credence bites his lips, trying desperately not to make a sound. But he can’t help it; little noises seem to escape the confines of his chest, little whimpers and whines and breathy noises.

He imagines the close cage of Mr Graves’ embrace. His countenance, so dark and serious, as he strokes his thumb over Credence’s palm. God, _god_ , he can’t help it. He can feel the prickle of sweat on his forehead, dripping down onto his neck and for a moment he imagines Mr Graves’ lips placed there instead, pressing hard kisses and little nips, sharp bites turning into sucks. Between his legs, he’s hard, impossibly hard, straining up into the mattress and against his belly, trapped by the fabric of his underwear.

In his mind, he kneels before Mr Graves like a heathen before a false idol, worshipful, idolatrous. He wants to press his mouth against Mr Graves’ stomach, his legs, wants to kiss every part of him, wants to make him feel good. He swallows, the thought sweet and sinful on his tongue.

He thinks what Mr Graves might look like, head tilted back, groaning. Perhaps he’d have one hand on Credence’s head, curled into his hair, pulling, tugging, making Credence’s eyes water, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He ruts up harder into the bed, sheet knotting up beneath him, eyes squeezing shut, spiralling towards a great cliff, mouth opening in a breathy wail –

Credence clutches at the sheets as he tumbles from that cliff, thick rivulets of come streaming from between his legs, Mr Graves’ name heavy on his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from  _Bel Canto_ by Ann Patchett:
>
>>   
>  _“His voice travelled like a drug dripped down the spiralling canals of their ears until they had forgotten everything, until they had forgotten their own names, until they turned and offered themselves up to him, their bodies sweet and soft as marzipan.”_  
> 
> 
> Come say hi at [my tumblr](http://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/)! The "world building" and "my writing" tags contain all my work. I ADORE prompts so please send me some!


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